


(c)lucky

by Shachaai



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, winter woes and avian winterwear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-25 21:49:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20032888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shachaai/pseuds/Shachaai
Summary: “Inglaterra, why is one of my chickens wearing a cape?”





	(c)lucky

**Author's Note:**

> Crossposted from my tumblr (winter 2016).

England has the run of Portugal’s homes. It isn’t unusual for Portugal to wake up in an empty bed those times England is staying with him in the winter, sleepily heading downstairs to find England has left the teapot hot for him, the TV murmuring in the background and England reading or working on embroidery on the sofa.

That day, Portugal dresses before he heads downstairs sometime before noon - worn jeans, shirt, and an old comfy jumper over it all -, heading for the kitchen. The teapot, snug and warm in a knitted English tea-cosy, is half-full of black tea, the teabags fished out so it wouldn’t oversteep. Portugal gladly pours himself out a cup, calling a still-sleepy _ obrigado _ to the quiet sound of the television in his living room and smiling at the familiar _ no problem _ that drifts back to him as he leans on his fridge door and ponders whether he can survive the weekend without buying any more milk. Just a splash goes into his tea, the drink still strong enough to wake him up, and then the mug in his hand and his thoughts are already turning towards curling up on the couch with his guest and falling asleep again. Burrowing his nose in England’s neck to take away the chill in the air.

Unfortunately, Portugal is distracted from his thoughts by one of his two expensive Amarela chickens strutting past the sight of his kitchen window, heading for some of the cabbage Portugal’s neighbours had given him for his birds. The hen, Portugal’s reserved little Felipa, has feathers in a lovely caramel-yellow colour - feathers which are currently being hidden by a bright red and green little cape tied around her neck.

“…Inglaterra?” Portugal calls, unable to tear his eyes away from his chicken, and hears a faint questioning _ mm? _ in response. “Inglaterra, why is one of my chickens wearing a cape?”

“Just the one of them?” England asks.

“ _ Sim, _ my Felipa, she -” Portugal pauses as one of his glossy black Preta Lusitânicas - this one, his proud Catarina - wanders over to join Felipa. _ Also _ wearing a red and green cape. “…Inglaterra, are _ all _ of my chickens wearing capes?”

“Just most of them.” England steps lightly enough Portugal only hears his approach when England sets his foot on the kitchen tiles, the Englishman leaning in the kitchen doorway with an amused smile upon his face and something colourful dangling from his fingertips. _ Red and green _ and colourful. “I haven’t finished knitting enough for your entire brood yet.”

Portugal puts down his tea, and just looks at his guest in absolute bewilderment. “ _ You _ made them all capes?”

England offers him out the little cape he is holding in his hands, and Portugal takes it. The weave is as tight and sure as any of England’s knitting, and the wool is very soft as Portugal rubs his thumbs back and forth over it, but. It doesn’t answer any of Portugal’s questions.

He looks at England hopelessly.

“I have two more in the living room for your hens,” England says quite candidly, as though this is normal for him, idly folding his arms across his chest and tucking his hands under the long sleeves of his own jumper. Has he gotten bored of knitting things for his former colonies and turned to the pets of his nearest and dearest instead? “And one for your vicious rooster, which you will be putting on that bloody bird yourself.”

“But -” Portugal looks between the sweet little cape in his hands, and the Nation he calls _ friend _ and _ lover _ and, usually, _ sane. _ (Perhaps, at another time of day, this might make sense?) “Inglaterra, not that these are not cute - very confusing, but cute -, but, chickens have _ feathers? _ To keep them warm? Already?”

“And you,” says England, letting his head rest again the door lintel and smiling a smile that would have Portugal wandering over to steal a soft sleepy kiss from him were he not so befuddled, “have six layers of clothing whenever the weather drops below twelve degrees, and yet that doesn’t stop _ you _ from complaining about the cold.”

That is a slight over-exaggeration, but Portugal is not going to argue it. He sighs instead, and just decides to go with it. The little knitted capes _ are _ quite cute, and well-made, in the colours of his flag, and Felipa and Caterina both seem to be clucking quite happily about the garden wearing them.

“ _ Obrigado, _ ” he says again, and then smiles a hopeless little smile up at England who has done him… a favour? Something meaning well, at least. Portugal’s chickens look a little silly, but well-loved. And surely there must be a story of England chasing the chickens around the garden to _ put _ the capes on them… “I think?”

“No problem,” England also says again, still looking amused. “Do you want to bring your tea and sit down on the couch? You look like your head hurts.”

_ “Sim, _ ” Portugal says, quite fervently, and forgets his tea because England opens his arms to him and Portugal goes to wrap himself around his strange, sweet little knitting guest so England can kiss his cheek and pat his head.

…Perhaps Portugal _ should _ keep better tabs on England when England is in his home. If England starts knitting things for the _ codfish _ , there might be a problem.  


**Author's Note:**

> Because of [this](https://eijentu.tumblr.com/post/152945216718/kaible-things-are-awful-and-will-remain-awful).


End file.
